


It's This Or Reality

by Anglephile



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Armed Robbery, Baking, F/M, First Aid, Gen, I Wrote This For Me, Self-Insert, you can read it if you want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-06-22 07:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19662619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglephile/pseuds/Anglephile
Summary: You made a deal with a triangle to enter Gravity Falls, and he dumped you right in front of a moving car. You would be mad if being hit by the Stanleymobile wasn't a convenient way to worm your way into Stan's life. And, maybe, achieve your ultimate goal of smacking some sense into a certain dumb genius.





	1. Painful Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, I don't really have much of a plan here. I am just trying to escape reality for a bit, and would 100% make a deal with any triangle to send me to Gravity Falls.

"Deal."

Your hand clasps his, and you are engulfed in blue flames. You gasp, and try to wrench your hand free when you find it empty. Reeling from the sudden movement, you fall back and...keep falling. The flames force their way inside your mouth when you gasp, and blue sparks fill your eyes with a screaming vortex. Your vision whites out and you hit the ground hard.

Something solid slams your leg, and you smack onto a flat metal surface. Tires screech, and you roll down onto a gravel road. Your eyes flash open at the searing pain in your left leg, and you sit up a little too quickly. The world spins, and you run a shaky hand down your face concentrating on the cool air. Fresh, and clear. It helps you come back to reality. You peek at the comically tall pine trees between your fingers. Like, how can trees even be that tall? This is ridiculous. This is--a car door slams somewhere on the edge of your awareness. This is Gravity Falls.

That little triangle did it.

A heavy hand lands on your shoulder. You flinch, and meet their worried frown with your wild eyed stare. They said something, asked you a question? Probably more than once, considering the look on their face. They are familiar, very familiar, but you aren't ready to accept what is in front of your face. That can't be right...can it? Your gaze drifts over their shoulder to the car behind them, and your eyes get even wider. Candy apple red. Intimidating grill. Custom license plate. STNLYMBL.

"Kid! Hey! Sweet Moses, you gotta talk to me, here!"

"...Yeah? Um, I mean, do you need something?" 

"Do I--? Kid, you're bleeding. Just let me, uh.." He trails off, hands frozen above your leg like he wants to help, but isn't sure how, or if your leg is broken, if it's okay to touch you--

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

You wave his hands away, cheeks turning bright red at his concern, and brace your hands on the road. You are a terrible liar. Tears pricked the corners of your vision, but damned if you were going to cry in front of Stan Pines. Or anyone, for that matter. You gritted your teeth, and bit back a growl as the cut on your leg made it's presence known. It wasn't the worst pain you've experienced. Letting your good leg do most of the work, you stand cautiously, Stan hovering around you the entire time. God, this was so freaking embarrassing. 

"There, see? M'fine."

Stan says nothing, just stares at the blood trickling down your calf with a distressed look on his face. Men. Yeah, it hurt. Yeah, it was a little messy. But, you just needed a minute to wrap your head around this, and you could handle it. So, you made a deal with an interdimensional being and wound up in a not as fictional as you thought universe. With the character you may, or may not have a soft spot for hitting you with his car. You wobble, and reach out to the car to catch your balance. 

You never make it. Your breath hitches in your throat as you find yourself cradled in a pair of arms as thick and sturdy as a the pine trees in the distance.

"Sorry, kid. You can't con a conman." His gruff baritone states somewhere near your ear. He shifts you higher on his chest with a grunt. "Gonna take ya to the Mystery Shack, just down the road. Get ya patched up."

How? How do you breathe? What are you supposed to do even? Stan Pines is actually holding you. You can feel his chest heave, muscles taut with the strain of your extra weight. He's so warm. You didn't realize you were cold, but with his body pressed against yours the heat makes you suppress a shiver.

"Kid? You wanna grab hold for a second here?"

He needs a hand free to get the door handle, and you are still in shock, arms held out like a bird about to take flight. His words rumble through his chest, and you go bright red. Not trusting yourself to speak, you make an affirmative noise, and stiffly wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He was a solid man, that's for sure. Biting your bottom lip, as the motion brings you even nearer to his stubble coated jaw. That mop of steel grey hair so close that you could reach out and pet him. You can smell his cologne, a mix of fresh herbals and leather.

A flash of pain makes you hiss as he lowers you down into the seat.

"Sorry." He mumbles near your ear. He's still so close. 

You bite back a whine when he withdraws his arms, and shuts the door with a snap. Absentmindedly your hand reaches back to grab the seatbelt and you buckle up as Stan gets in. You force yourself to take a shaky breath, and calm down. This is why you're here. You didn't expect Bill to dump you in front of a moving car, but you didn't expect him to get you to Gravity Falls at all. Before long your cruising down the road, watching the trees fly past at a speed that seems suspiciously higher than was posted. Inhaling the scent of the forest and faded cigar smoke, you try to acclimate to your situation. This was better. Your dimension sucked. Yeah, being hit by a car sucked, and you were still bleeding, and had no job, place to stay, but it was still better than where you came from. 

It had to be.

Stan kept glancing at you like he wanted to start a conversation, but wasn't sure how to go about it. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. He reached for the radio, and changed his mind. His eyes darted to you again, and this time you made eye contact.

"Heh, I uh," he started weakly. He ran his hand through his steel gray hair and tried again. "My name's Stan. Stan Pines, if you're wonderin' whose car you're in."

You weren't, but you give your name anyway. The leather creeks as you shift to get more comfortable. Well, you didn't come all this way not to talk to Stan Pines, but...

"This is not how I pictured this going." You say, sighing dramatically.

Stan offers a crooked smile, staring out at the road.

"Yeah? You see this coming? No offense, kid, but you're a shitty psychic."

"That's what I get for using discount blood stones." You huff.

Stan chuckles, and a smile finds it's way to your face against your will. He had a nice laugh. Deep, and contagious. Maybe you should play up the psychic act. You need to find some way to hang around him, anyway. Closing your eyes, you rub your temple, and sink lower into the seat. 

"We can't all be as good as your mom."

Stan blinks.

"How did you--?"

"Psychic." You tap your skull, and wiggle your eyebrows. "An even better one when I haven't been hit by a speeding conman."

"Don't think you're getting away with that one, kid." He pulls into the Mystery Shack parking lot, and parks near the entrance. "Alright, let's get ya cleaned up."

You eye the Shack; in awe of it's intimidating height, the subtle triangles hidden in the corners. A dusting of shaggy moss covers a good portion of the roof, and creeps into the space between the logs of the cabin. If left for too long, nature would reclaim it in a matter of weeks. Stan opens the door, wrenching you away from your thoughts. Swinging your legs out, you ease yourself up until you're standing, using the car for support. Stan looks at you with an exasperated sigh.

"We gonna do this again, kid?" he arches a brow, waiting for you to see reason.

You shoot him a withering look before focusing on trying to walk without falling on your face. You can do this. Refusing to admit defeat, you shift your weight cautiously to your left foot. Maybe it's not as bad as you remember. Electric needles claw up the tear in your calf to your spine, and steals the breath from your throat--which is just as well because you were ready to curse a blue streak. You look up at Stan, guilt painted across your features.

Stan blinks at you, arms crossed.

"...Alright, I...need your help." You mumble, eyes downcast. "But if you steal my wallet, I'm going to be really upset!"

He rolls his eyes, but scoops you up regardless.

"Geez, kid. Wait 'til I commit a crime before ya accuse me." 

Still massively uncomfortable, you relent, and drape you arms around his shoulders. Despite the physical and social pain, you are all eyes as he hauls your body into the Shack. He takes you in through the gift shop, and straight back into the living area. You don't miss a thing. The jar of eyeballs. The aztec calendar. The vending machine! The trap door. Stan's recliner. Ooo, the T-rex coffee table! You knew the location of every item, every painting, but knowing and seeing were two different things. Dust coated the top of the TV, the light fixtures, pretty much everything that wasn't touched on a daily basis. The fabric on the recliner was coarsely woven, and frayed where it was rubbed too often. Everything is so worn, and lived in that you feel a twinge. This isn't flat background decoration. This is a real home.

Stan's a little winded by the time you reach the kitchen. He plops you in a chair with pointed instructions to stay seated, and goes to grab the first aid kit. You rest your chin in your palm and lean on the table. Your fingers drum on the formica impatiently. Glancing down at the rip in your jeans, you make a decision. You dig around in your pockets for a second before you find it. With an audible snick, you open the blade of your pocket knife, and measure roughly halfway down your thigh. The denim slices like butter, and you hum to yourself as you work the knife around your leg with some fidgeting. You kick your boots off, and nudge them under the table. Yanking the fabric down and off, careful around the gash in your calf, you make quick work of the other side. 

When Stan returns, you are scooted low on the chair, rolling up the jagged edges of your new shorts. A pile of bloody denim sits on the floor next to you. He stops just inside kitchen looking a bit stunned.

"What? I'm still sitting." You shift upright, and spread your arms to showcase your ability to follow instructions. 

"That's not what I was--" He clears his throat, shuffling to the table and using the first aid kit as an excuse to avoid eye contact. "You're just showing a lot of leg, there."

"Stan, it's this, or take my pants off. How else are we going to put on bandages?"

A dusting of pink colors his cheeks, and he covers it with bravado. 

"As long as your comfortable, Toots." He grins cheekily, pulling out a chair and sitting across from you. Stan pats his lap. "Let me get a look at ya."

Just as apt to hide insecurity with fake confidence, you lean back and throw both legs on Stan's lap, left one bent and resting on his knee. Your cocky smile wavers as he gently cleans the blood from your leg with damp paper towels, his free hand coming up to hold your calf steady. The warmth from his broad hand melts away the tension in your muscles. His brow creases in concentration as he works, all joking set aside. You suck in a quick breath through your teeth when he dabs the gash with disinfectant. He surprises you by rubbing his other hand up and down your calf, soothing away the pain with mumbled encouragements. Efficiently, he wraps up the wound with bandages, and ties it off. He glances up, and turns red at your dazzled expression, rubbing his neck in sudden embarrassment. 

Just as he opens his mouth, a whirl of energy blows in the back door.

"Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Stan! Waddles keeps trying to eat my journal!"

"It had a picture of jellybeans on it! He was just confused! Oh my god, Grunkle Stan is this your girlfriend!"

"Girlfriend? No way! I'm his wife. We just got married this morning." You lie easily, laughter dancing in your eyes.

Mabel lights up immediately, hands fisted in front of her mouth to contain the high pitched scream you know is imminent. Stan's reaction is instantaneous. He panics, hands waving in front of his chest as he tries to defuse the situation.

"Do NOT get her started! Mabel, sweetie, we're not married. I'm just, uh, helping her with some bandages."

"Oh no! What happened? Did you get shot by Cupid's arrow?" Mabel coos, refusing to let your joke drop.

"I already told ya, she just--"

"It's not the gnomes again, is it? Or, did you have an encounter with a scampfire? Or maybe it was--" 

Dipper's incessant questioning is cut off by a loud gurgle. Apparently, his stomach knows it's supper time. He blushes, and looks away. 

"Sweet Moses, I forgot about the groceries! Dipper, Mabel, unload the car for your Grunkle, will ya? I'm gonna get our guest set up here."

"Set up?" You echo in shock.

Mabel perks up when she hears you're staying, and elbows Dipper as they dash outside, no doubt in full match making mode. The resulting silence is deafening in comparison as you're left alone with Stan again. You slide your legs off Stan's lap, and slip your boots back on. As you're tightening the laces, you hear a not so subtle throat clearing. It's just possible that Stan wants your attention. You oblige, raising a brow in question.

"Look, I don't know where you were tryin' to go, but I think you're outta commission for a while. And, uh..." Stan rubs the back of his neck again, sheepish. "I feel kinda bad about hittin' ya with the Stanmobile. If ya wanted to stay for dinner, I wouldn't exactly put up a fight."

You take a moment to scream internally before replying, cool as a cucumber, "Only if I get to help cook."

The kids rush back into the kitchen in a flurry of dropped cans and immediately start chucking bags of marshmallows at each other. Stan releases a long suffering sigh at the scene. He turns back to you, oblivious, as a pack of bacon sails through the air towards his head. Your eyes widen in panic. You spring up before you realize you're doing it, and catch it inches from it's target. Stan eyes the bacon in your hand, then to you standing like a flamingo to keep the weight off your foot.

"Sounds good to me, kid."


	2. Supper and Interogations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Supper time at the Shack, and your psychic abilities are put to the test.

The next twenty minutes are spent in a chaotic dance of two kids, two adults, and one pig all trying to help at the same time. The kids were just as likely to do as they were told, as to launch a spoonful of potatoes at the other's turned back and run off in a war of flying vegetables. Stan was manning the skillet, attempting to watch both the kids and the sizzling tenderloin. He was managing, but barely, so you called Mabel, the number one instigator, over to the table to help you with the carrots. Her face lit up. She was more than happy to drop everything, in this case it was Dipper's hat that she held just out of his reach, and join you at the table. She peppered you with a seemingly endless stream of questions, but it allowed the boys to get a handle on the meat and potatoes. 

"What's your favorite color of sprinkles?"

"Metallic blue."

"Who's your favorite Sev'ral Times member?"

"Chubby Z. I like a man with some meat on his bones."

"Meat..." Dipper looks thoughtful for a moment, then pops a question of his own. "Hey, Grunkle Stan, where does tenderloin come from? I understand it's cow, but...what part exactly?"

"The part that's edible. Geez, kid. All I know is it's on sale this week."

"Oh, I can show you. Right about...uh." You shift around in your seat, but can't quite reach your back to point it out. Frowning, you huff in annoyance. Then you notice Stan at the stove with his back to you. That could work. "Hey, Stan, just stand there for a second, okay?"

"Sure, s'not like I'm cookin' or something." He grumbles good naturedly, but stays where he is.

"Okay, so, the tenderloin is located from about here to here." You spread your thumb and forefinger, and run them down the side of Stan's spine to his lower back. He jumps a little at your touch. "Ticklish?"

"N-no. Definitely not. And don't you try it!" He shouts defensively, then turns away, ears pink, and grumbles. "I just don't want 'em gettin' ideas."

"Oh, Grunkle Stan, don't worry. We would only eat you if something really terrible happened. Like a snowstorm covered the city in ten feet of snow. Or--" She gasps, her face drawn in imagined horror. "we ran out of maple syrup."

Stan groans. "Thanks, pumpkin. I feel better already."

"Anytime, Grunkle Stan!" she chirps with a wink.

"Potatoes are done!" 

Dipper sets the bowl of mashed potatoes next to the carrots. Mabel bounces off, only to return with plates and silverware. It was a whirl of activity that felt more like a choreographed dance and you didn't know the steps. You just sat there awkwardly and let dinner unfold around you. With your damn leg, you probably would've just been in the way. Soon enough, a plate is in front of you, and the event is in full swing. Stan and Mabel are focused on shoveling in the food as fast as possible, but Dipper is more distracted. Darting glances at you when he thinks you're not looking. He's right to be suspicious, and the next time he looks up, you're staring dead at him. You wink at him, and he blushes up to his ears, giggling nervously.

"So, um, w-what kind of job do you have? Or, are you still in school? What made you come to Gravity Falls?" He starts tentatively, but his curious nature overrides his shyness.

Yeah, this was overdue, and he was right to pry. Alright, then. How to approach this? More fact than fiction? You definitely would not be telling the whole truth.

"I'm a...traveling psychic, actually. I came here to, ah...meet someone, but he doesn't seem to be here, yet." Not meet. Slap. You were here to slap someone. Namely, Stan's idiot brother. You were convinced Weirdmageddon could be ended much earlier if someone smacked some sense into Ford. Those broken tea cups needed to hug it out, and you were gonna make it happen. It's that or, deal with your own problems and that wasn't going to happen.

"A psychic! Ooo, what number am I thinking of?" Mabel asks brightly.

"Why is that always the first thing people ask?" You question nobody in particular and see Stan smirk into his Pitt Cola. Doubting you, is he? "And, negative eight."

Stan's eyes widen when Mabel confirms your answer with a hushed, "How'd you do that?"

Dipper is not so easily bought. He narrows his eyes, and shoots you a test question of his own. "Okay, what song did I sing in the shower this morning?"

You put down your fork, and raise an eyebrow.

"You sure you want me to tell everyone?"

He stutters, rethinking his question, but ultimately nods. Catching you out is apparently more important than his reputation.

"Babba. Disco girl. And, Stan walked in on you."

Dipper fumbles with his fork, dropping it on his plate before picking it and doing it all over again. Stan rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. Mabel looks between the two of them excitedly, dinner forgotten.

"Is she right? Did she get it? Ooo, she did! Grunkle Stan, you should get her to work at the Mystery Shack! Our very own psychic!"

"Mabel, sweetie, don't you think she has somewhere to be?"

You clear your throat, looking off to the side for a moment.

"Uh, yeah. Totally. Got a gig lined up in...uh, the next town. Whatever it's called..." You trail off gesturing vaguely in the air. "Doesn't matter. I'm psychic, I'll just psychic up some lotto numbers, and I'll be fine."

Stan hasn't known you that long, but he's starting to catch on to the fact that every time you say you're fine, you actually mean the opposite. He sets down his fork, and clears his throat. Uh, oh. You really need to get better at lying, especially if you're trying to pull one over on Stan Pines.

"Dipper, Mabel, don't you guys have some spookum to go chase?"

"What? Really? But, I thought you said after dinner was family time."

"Just go before I change my mind. And be back before dark!" He shouted the last part at an empty room, the kids getting the gist almost immediately.

He sighs, and starts clearing the table. Amidst the clink and clatter, you fidget in your seat trying to figure out your next step. You slide your leg to the side and experimentally press down, maybe it's better by now? Yep, nope. Not quite. Stan looks at you from the sink, and you are quick to banish the wince on your face, plastering on an innocent smile instead. His eyes narrow nonetheless.

"You don't...have anywhere to go, do ya, kid?"

"I have been reliably informed that I'm going to hell, so...uh. No?" You finish lamely when Stan doesn't react to your attempt at humor.

"We don't really have any spare beds..."

Suppressing an urge to ask to share his, you opt for something more reasonable. You are a stranger, after all. 

"The couch on the back porch is good enough for me. I don't really sleep."

Stan raises an eyebrow at that. 

"Don't worry. I get my eight hours a week like anyone else."

"Ha! Ya know, you remind me of my--someone." He cuts himself off abruptly.

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't think about it, but since he brought it up...maybe you could use it to your advantage. Sounds like Ford is still on the other side, so Stan must still be trying to figure out the journals. Well, you could help with that. He likes a good bargain, doesn't he? Letting a smirk tug the corners of your mouth, you turn to face him head on.

"Someone, huh?" You drag the word out, hinting not so subtly that you know exactly what he is talking about. Then change the subject, drumming your fingers on your bottom lip. "We could make a deal, you and I. You let me stay for a few days, and I'll owe you a favor. You don't have to decide right now. Here. I'll make it official." You grab a napkin, and a stray...purple glitter crayon...and write a quick IOU. You slide towards him. "I..O..U..Deal?"

He looks at the napkin amusement twisting to confusion. LRX rph idyru. What was that supposed to mean? Did you hit your head when you fell? He would feel better if you stayed, anyway, but now he wanted to keep an extra close eye on you. Oh, Geez. He had no idea how to treat head wounds.

"Uh, s-sure, kid. It's a deal." He forces half a smile that doesn't quite cover up concern in his eyes. "Don't stand again! Here, let me take ya to the couch...We're gonna need a new system. My knees aren't what they used to be."

He settles you on the couch out back, still trying to figure out how you knew it was even there. He was yet to believe a single lie you told, but if you weren't psychic, how did you know so much about...well, everything around you. Waving away his offer of a blanket, you close your eyes and snuggle down into the cushions. Stan rolls his eyes, and wanders inside for a second. This would be a lot easier if you would just accept his help once in a while. Stubborn, that's what you are. You jolt as something soft flops over you. Pulling the blanket off your head, you watch Stan recede with a gruff "G'night, Toots."

"Night, Stan."


	3. Good Morning, Sunshine!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan benefits from having a stress baker in the house.

The sun slants through the kitchen window casting the various taxidermied animal parts in golden light, and falling on the papers strewn about the kitchen table. The resident woodpecker was hard at work waking up the rest of the forest with his staccato hammering. Dust particles glowed in the sunbeams, dancing on the air currents and swirling high over the cooling coffee cake on top of the oven. It was nice to finally get some light to read by, you were tired of squinting at what appeared to be photocopied pages of one of the journals. The eraser marks above the neat cursive writing confirmed your theory of where you were in the timeline; Stan had not yet cracked all the codes, and the portal had not been activated.

Yeah, you didn't sleep last night. How could you? As you tossed and turned on the couch, you were vaguely aware of Stan tucking in the twins and returning to the kitchen for some hours before slinking off to bed much later than he should have. So, after a long three hours of sleep, you decided to limp quietly back to the kitchen to stress bake a little.   
Which is why the scent of cinnamon was gradually wafting up the stairs, and pulling Stan from his bed. He stumbled along the hallway using the wall as a guide instead of opening his eyes. He wavered at the entrance for a minute, finally accepting that he had to stand on his own if he wanted to go any further. You smirked as you took in the view. Either he had forgotten there was a strange woman staying with him, or he just didn't care if everyone saw him in his underwear. Navy slippers, blue striped boxers and a tank top that had been white at some point in it's life completed the outfit. His hair was mussed and missing his trademark fez. You really wanted to reach out and pet him, he looked so adorable. He was a wonderful blend of powerful and soft, like a teddy bear with knuckledusters. 

He may have been upright, but he was in no way present, as he didn't seem to have any idea you were there. Amusement bubbling in your eyes, you watched him blearily fumble for the cabinet, and somehow manage to get coffee grounds into the machine before dropping the scooper on the floor. He bends over to pick it up, and nearly hits the ceiling when you wolf whistle from the table.

"Now, who's showing a lot of leg, huh, Stan?" You chuckle at his expense.

"Holy Moses, kid! Ya tryin' to give me a heart attack?" He clutches at his chest theatrically.

"Nope. Just seemed like you were trying to get my attention." You give him a pointed once over, and a rugged blush warms his face before he turns back to his coffee with a gruff cough.

You go back to reading the papers in front of you, giving Stan a moment to wake up. After a few sips of coffee, he perks up a little, and starts to grumble about breakfast. Why couldn't it just make itself? If he didn't have kids to take care of he wouldn't even bother, and now there was another mouth to feed. A sigh escapes him. Would pancakes be alright? He was craving sweet stuff for some reason--oh. There's a coffee cake sitting on the oven. He blinks. Nope. Still there.

"Hm? I, uh, hope you don't mind. I'm a bit of a stress baker..." You offer sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck.

"How did...I didn't think I had the stuff to make that..."

"Sure you did. No one wants to admit it, but most baked goods are made out of the same couple ingredients. You know, flour, sugar, milk, eggs..." Your babbling trails off as he leans forward, closing his eyes to inhale the earthy sweet cinnamon floating in tendrils of warm steam like something from the cover of a baking magazine. Your face heats up. You don't know why you're perfectly comfortable commenting on Stan's underwear, but the expression on his face as he inspects your baking makes you nervous. You probably shouldn't have helped yourself to his kitchen without permission. He probably needed those ingredients, and now you messed up his routine. "I...um, I'm sorry if I overstepped."

"Toots, if this tastes as good as it smells, I'll put you in charge of the kitchen."

He grabs a knife, and raises his eyebrows in question. You nod vigorously, raising your hands in a gesture of letting go; yeah, help yourself, it's your food, anyway. He grunts, and cuts a couple very thick slices, grinning happily when he sees the ribbon of streusel running through the middle. Plopping them on a couple of plates, he sets one in front of you and sits with you at the table. You mutter a quiet "thank you" and break off a corner, pausing to watch Stan take a huge bite. The deep groan that rumbles from his chest makes you blush another shade darker.

"I guess it's good, huh?"

He nods, washing down the mouthful with a swig of coffee, and turns to you with that cheeky conman grin. Does he know that melts your heart?

"And you want me to believe you're a psychic with skills like that?"

"Alright you got me." You ignore the butterflies in your stomach, and lean in close to whisper. "I'm actually a special agent for the CIA. We've been watching you, Pines."

He seems to take you seriously for a moment, a flash of panic colors his features, gone as quick as it appears. He narrows his eyes at you.

"...Nah. Not buying it."

"Good. That's even further from the truth."

His eyes fall to the papers sitting under your plate, and that wild eyed panic returns. His hands twitch as if he wants to snatch the photo copied journal pages from you, and hide them under the rug. He fights the urge; if he does that, you'll know how important those are to him. Clearing his throat, he takes a sip of coffee and tries to be casual. 

"That's some pretty boring reading material ya got there. Here, why don't ya let me get rid of that for ya." 

He makes a grab for the papers, and you have to lift your plate as he pulls them away. You arch an eyebrow, but let him take the papers. The man was not subtle. 

"I dunno, I liked the part when they fought the Jersey Devil."

"Yeah, like I told ya, boring...Wait, you can read this?"

You shrug, and stuff a piece of cake in your mouth.

"Right. It's not like I've been trying to make sense of this for years, or somethin'..." His eyes flick up to yours for a moment before darting away. He rubs the back of his neck nervously. "Say, you don't suppose you could show me how ya did that?"

You squirm a little in your seat. You didn't really want to mess up the order of events, but you guess you already did just by shoving your way in this dimension in the first place. And, he was so cute when he was nervous. There was no way you could deny him anything. Poor little broken tea cup.

You nod, half your mouth turning up in a worried smile.

The sincere grin he shoots your way shatters any resistance left in your body. He glances at the clock, and jolts. 

"Holy Moses! I gotta open the Shack! Why don't ya stop by the gift shop later. We'll see if we can't find something to keep you off that leg of yours."

He disappears upstairs to change leaving you alone with your thoughts. Luckily, it was only for a minute, as the twins blew into the kitchen in a whirlwind of twitchy energy and glitter. How convenient that Stan had to open the Shack right this minute.


	4. Attempted Robbery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some jerk tries to rob the Shack, and you go a little too far...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets a little violent here, but no more blood than chapter 1.

You poked the nose of a bobble head, watching it sway before meandering around to the other side of the shelves. You never understood the appeal of those things. Stan was wrapping up a tour, using his remarkable skills as a fast talker to get tourists to buy more of his Mystery Shack swag and out the door with surprising efficiency. You were puttering around the gift shop at his request, patient, if a little bored. You play idly with the random toys on display, never could keep your hands to yourself, and pull out an 8 ball cane. Hm. That could be useful.

You hold it up against your side, trying to see if it's the right height, when it slips out from under you and clatters to the floor. You roll your eyes. Yeah, that's typical. Wincing a little as a flash of pain skitters up your leg, you awkwardly drop to your knees to pick it up grumbling the whole time. You hear Stan's footsteps clomp around to the register to talk shop with Wendy who just happened to be standing opposite you. Perfect timing. Geez, was there ever going to be a time when you didn't look like an idiot in front of him? Distantly, you hear the bell above the door signal the arrival of one last customer. Grabbing the cane, you start to maneuver yourself into a crouch when something in the atmosphere makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You ease forward, ignoring the burning stretch in your healing leg.

"Somethin' I can do for you, pal?"

That was decidedly unfriendly. Your brain instinctively switches gears. Stan is in front of you, behind the counter. He's standing in front of Wendy, hand held out as if to keep her there. Going by her worried expression, it's not going to be a problem. If he sees you, he doesn't react. You creep up until you're flush with the end of the aisle. Judging by the direction of Stan's glower, the newcomer is somewhere to your left. Quick footsteps rush forward.

"Empty the register! And your wallets! I'm not screwing aro--!"

He falls facedown, legs tangled in the 8 ball cane you thrust out suddenly. Wasting no time, you straddle him, pinning him to the floor with your weight. Wrenching his arm behind his back, you bend his wrist unnaturally until the body under you is taught with pain. Your eyes flick up, checking for the gun and relaxing when you see it some distance away. Stan is frozen halfway around the counter, ready to come to your aid, but not wanting to upset the balance of the situation. Wendy dashes for the gun, putting the safety on and tucking it in her waist band automatically. The man curses under you, showering you with abuse until his index finger is bent at an unfortunate angle, and he yelps. You lock eyes with Stan.

"Your house. Your call. Do you want to call the cops? Or, would you like me to demonstrate my fileting skills?"

The man panics, bucking under you in desperation, struggling to throw you off. Growling, you twist his arm in a brutal grip, increasing the pressure until he curves like a bow and submits. His words incomprehensible; panting and begging for you to please, please, let go, he's sorry, please. If he could see your smile, his blood would freeze. 

"Stop! Just let him go, alright?"

You still. The man's frightened panting fills the room. Glancing up at Stan, you lean close to the robber's ear.

"You see that man? He is the reason your skin's still attached to your meat, your tendons still pull your bones together..." You twist until he gasps. "...your scalp still glued to your skull..." Your hand threads through his hair, viciously tugs his head up to look at Stan. "...say thank you."

"Th-thank you!"

You release him, and he knocks you over in his rush to get out the door. Frowning, you pat your bandage, checking to find that it is indeed bleeding again. You pick up the cane, and use it to prop your way to a standing position. That was more action than you expected in Gravity Falls, and you may have gotten a little carried away. What is Stan going to think of you, now? You doubt he's going to let you stay any longer after that display, he's got the kids to think about, after all. Avoiding his eyes, you limp off towards the living area. You'll just fix up your leg, and be on your way. You didn't want to cause him more stress. That's not why you came to this dimension.

A hand grabs your shoulder, gentle but firm, stopping you in your tracks. You don't turn around.

"You weren't serious about that, were ya, kid? Ya wouldn't've really--" 

"Stan, I know you've caught me lying before. I'm not good at it."

Leaning heavily on the cane, you shrug out of his hold, and continue your procession to the bathroom. Well, you've ruined it. Now, you can't go back to your dimension, and you're unwelcome in this one. You give your reflection a cold look in the mirror. Well, the only part of this dimension you care about. You sink down to sit on the edge of the tub and toss the old bandages in the garbage. As you're rewrapping the wound, you feel Stan hovering near the doorway. He's trying to find the right way to ask you leave. Just get out. You beat him to it. You can at least save him that much trouble.

"Don't worry. I'm going. I know I freaked you out in the gift shop." You stand, grabbing the cane from where you propped it against the sink. "You don't have to tell me to get out. I won't bother you again."

Stan slams his palm on the doorframe, blocking your way.

"Stop putting words in my mouth! Kid, geez I...I wanted to say thank you. I don't know how that would've turned out without your help, and I appreciate you stepping in. But, don't keep using my merchandise to fight crime! It gives the wrong impression."

You narrow your eyes in confusion.

"You don't want me to leave? Not afraid to let me around the twins?"

"What? No, you weren't the one waving a gun around. And you're not going anywhere til ya fork up the dough for that cane."

You want to argue that it's not weapons, but willingness to use them that makes a person dangerous. After all, you didn't need the gun to take control of the situation. But, then he smiles at you, a teasing grin that can't quite mask the fondness in his eyes. He wants you to stay. The corner of your mouth twitches upward, still too shaken up for a full on smile.

"Guess I better start working off my debt. I'll get started on dinner."


	5. That's an Interesting Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Portal is activated, and the Pines family admires your tattoos...if only they hadn't seen one particular image...

Head in your hands, you're staring down into a mug of coffee trying to remember how many cups you've had since helping Stan with his notes last night. He rolled his eyes when you pointed out the IOU you handed him earlier was an apparently too subtle hint at what code to use. You pouted. Well, you thought it was clever. Stan was hesitant at first, about asking for help, about being taught by someone, but when you offered to stay up with him and plow through all of the untranslated notes in one night, he couldn't say no. After hour five, he had stopped trying to hide stuff from you, and just started to assume you knew what he was working on. He still didn't buy your psychic act, but fortunately hadn't pushed you for the truth yet. You had let too much slip in your sleep deprived state, and it was nice not to have to flat out lie anymore. He had a lot to go through. It's not like you had to crack all of it, he had done quite a bit himself, but it took so much time that you figured it wasn't worth going to sleep once the sun started to come up. 

The grizzled reflection in your coffee ripples a bit as the Shack tries to leave it's foundation. A muffled boom shakes the ground as it settles, sloshing coffee over the rim. You don't even flinch. 

Good. Stan must've got it running, then.

The oven beeps and you stand up, stifling a yawn. This morning you opted for cinnamon rolls because you could make them in your sleep, and because they illustrated your point of using the same ingredients to make different baked goods. You shrugged out of your flannel shirt, and tied it around your waist. It really was too hot in here with the oven on. You bend down to take breakfast out of the oven, and when you turn to set it on the table, the twins tumble into the kitchen like they didn't need a whole pot of coffee to be awake, or something. What was that like? You mumble a semi-coherent greeting in response to Mabel's cheerful "Good morning, good morning, good morning!" The third "good morning" directed behind you to where Stan had just dragged himself through the doorway.

"Mornin' Pumpkin."

"Hey, Grunkle Stan!"

"I didn't forget about ya, Dipper. G'morning."

Zombied out, you elected to forgo the social niceties. He knew you were there, you spent all night together, besides, these cinnamon rolls weren't going to cover themselves in cream cheese frosting. Stan shambles his way over to the coffee as the twins claim their usual seats at the table. In response to your wordless grabby hands gesture, Mabel passes you a stack of plates. Her shout makes you fumble, and nearly curse. Luckily, you have the wherewithal to sensor yourself.

"God--bless America, kid! What is it?"

"Your tattoos are so fabulous!" She smacks her cheek with one hand, pointing to the colorful pictures snaking up your left arm with the other. "A rainbow peacock!"

"Phoenix." You correct absently, plating up the pastry.

"Cuddling lizards!"

"Fighting dragons."

"A flower wand!"

"That's a dagger stabbing a rose..."

"Grunkle Stan!"

"What is it, Sweetie?"

"No. Grunkle Stan."

There's a heavy pause as Dipper and Stan follow Mabel's outstretched finger to stare slack jawed at the sleeve of tattoos trailing up your arm. Eh, let 'em look. It's what tattoos are for, anyway. They must not see a lot of people with tattoos around here, but even so, that's a rather intense silence--OH, CRAP! You slap your hand over the picture they were all staring at, eyes wide as you meet their shell shocked faces. 

You had forgotten about your tattoo of Grunkle Stan.

"I...had a vision?" You venture tentatively.

Stan crosses his arms. 

"Try again, kid."

"...No." You cross your arms back at him. "I'm sticking with vision."

"Kid, you have a tattoo of my face! I mean, you've got good taste, don't get me wrong, but it's time you dropped the psychic act. I'm too tired to pretend like I believe in this nonsense. So, start talking."

You come up short, butt hitting the counter. Something solid presses against your back, and your eyes widen in recognition. Your hand scrambles behind you to grab a fistful of the stuff you suddenly weren't regretting leaving out on the counter. 

"Right, see, the thing about that is--"

You fling your hand out in front of you, watching as a cloud of fine white powder engulfs the kitchen in an impromptu smokescreen. Shambling as fast as your leg will allow, you bolt out the front door amidst a chorus of coughing and light cursing. You vault off the porch, and combat roll under the front porch just as a clatter of footsteps bursts through the door. Hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your panting, you stay as still as possible while two sets of feet patter off in different directions. Slow, heavy footsteps make their way to the center of the porch, right above your head, and stop. Your jaw clenches, sure you've been found out. A gruff sigh drifts down between the planks with a quiet "damn..." The footsteps trudge back inside, defeated, leaving you alone in the shadows with the damp earth and your thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I got a Grunkle Stan tattoo...


	6. Miss me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan gets arrested, but instead of taking him to jail the driver has something else in mind.

"Oh, sure! Just leave the dishes to me, why don't you?! No, no, I insist!" Stan shouts sarcastically from the back porch. He turns to stomp back inside when a pinecone hits him in the head. "Ow! Seriously?"

It was going on three days, and you still had yet to make an appearance. But you had never really left in the first place. Familiar with the habits of the Pines, you had taken it upon yourself to sneak in when you knew they would be out, and prepare meals for them. It frustrated Stan to no end. Mabel had been elated at the thought of food magically appearing, but Dipper had brought her back down to reality by pointing out that "Pastry Pixies" wouldn't leave dirty dishes in the sink. That's when Stan's concern boiled over into exasperation. He spent the last few days combing the grounds of the Shack, the back roads, even checking in at the diner, although he doubted you could make it that far. And where were you? Playing chef at the Mystery Shack! Damnit, he was worried you were eaten by gnomes, or something, and you still wouldn't show your face!

"Damnit, Kid! You can't just run from your problems! How far do you think you'll get?"

"...you have no idea..." a quiet whisper drifts from the trees.

Stan didn't have time for this. He really didn't. 

The portal would activate in a little over an hour, and nothing on this planet would keep him from his brother. Not secret codes, not psychics, not the law, not even--what is that? A lady bug? He swats at the red dot on his shirt, only for ten more to appear instantaneously. Oh. Shit.

Figures the feds would show up. 

He was arrested, and shoved in the back of a black hummer before he had a chance to explain anything to the kids. I mean, they knew he wasn't always on the right side of the law, he wasn't subtle about it, but this was a lot more serious than shoplifting Summerween decorations. There were things they needed to know. Things he needed to tell them before someone else did. He tries yelling to the kids from the backseat, desperate, he tries pleading innocence to the driver, tries cutting a deal, anything. He can't miss the portal activating. Not after all this time. He's met with silence. 

A large bump in the road makes him duck, lest his head hit the ceiling, and a lance of fear skitters down his spine. He hasn't been paying attention to where they were taking him. The hummer creeps down an overgrown path, he couldn't even call it a road. They roll to a stop and he changes the tune of his bargaining, dread gripping his throat tight. This couldn't be right. This wasn't where you take someone to lock them up, this was where you took someone you wanted to mysteriously disappear. The driver turns off the engine. Takes their sunglasses off, meticulously folding them and placing them in the front pocket of their suit looking almost chipper. He was in deep shit, now. Stan scoots as far back as the seat allows. His eyes dart around for escape taking note of the locked doors with no handles in the backseat, feeling more like a cornered animal with every passing second. His heart beat loudly in his ears. He wasn't just trapped. He was trapped with a killer.

"L-look, I don't know what they told ya, but it's all lies. I swear!" His cuffed hands float in the air in front of his chest, waving away the accusations. The metal clinks traitorously, and his shoulders inch upward. "You don't want to do this--"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed that all the fuss you were making meant you didn't want to be arrested. Didn't realize it was one of your kinks. This is awkward."

The driver turns to him with a crooked smile, and for the first time he can remember, he's speechless. It's that loony psychic. You grab his cuffs by the chain, and pull them forward, his body too stunned to do anything other than follow along.

"I can't believe they cuffed your hands in front of your body. What, is this their first day?"

"I--You--Stole a government vehicle--"

"And a suit."

"--Have you lost whatever sense you had? Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick!"

"You were worried about me?" You lean close, a shit eating grin plastered across your face, batting your eyelashes playfully. Stan tries to back up, red with embarrassment, but you're still holding the chain on his handcuffs.

"Well, it's just that--uh, the kids, yeah, the kids wanted to run off looking for you, and I had to keep stopping 'em. You're an adult. You're fine on your own."

Your smile is gone in an instant, replaced by something hard and sad. Stan's eyes widen and he looks like he wants to say more. You release him, refusing to make eye contact, and start to pat down your pockets.

"Right. Silly me." Your voice could freeze glass. "Here. Get yourself outta those. We got things to do."

You toss a bobby pin at him on your way out of the car, and he fumbles trying to catch it and watch you at the same time. Cursing under his breath, it takes him longer than it should to pick the cuffs. If he didn't hurry, he might loose track of you. "C'mon, c'mon...ha!" 

You wouldn't just leave him out here, right?


End file.
